Like Iron
by thousanth
Summary: He is sick, and there is only one solution. Ferrus Manus, pre-Horus Heresy era.


Originally written for a Ferrus & Fulgrim prompt on the gamefic community, because Wraight's Ferrus is the _best. _

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The sons of my brother Dorn refer to themselves as the Imperial Fists. They claim as their heraldry the clenched, mailed fist of a warrior; their intent being to represent their place at my father's side, and cement their claim that they act as his strong right hands. My brother Perturabo named his sons the Iron Warriors, for the cold metal of their souls is their strongest defence and their most proud boast. There is iron and steel in all my brothers, and all their children. We are the bulwark behind which Humanity may shelter, as Vulcan would have it. We are the golden spear that strikes down Humanity's enemies in their stead, so that they might flourish.

This strength, this steel, this _obsession_ will be our doom. My sons do not model themselves upon my father. Instead, they set themselves at my side and seek to reflect my bearing in all that they do. They look upon the alien metal that encases my hands, my arms, and they covet it. In their own striving to emulate me do they set their feet along the path to destruction, choosing the road that diverges from the main, rather than the one to which they should bind their steps.

I am a simple man, and my needs are few. I seek strength in myself, and surety in all that I do. I have no desire for the ostentations of luxury, nor the softnesses that other men seek. I was created to prove my strength to this universe, to bend it to my will and pacify it in my father's name. I am his weapon and his tool, and I do not begrudge my part in this.

I am strong. I have brought worlds to heel, conquered tyrants and alien warlords. I have spread my father's teachings to the darkest parts of the galaxy, and for this I am proud. And yet I waver. I look upon my sons, my Iron Hands, and feel a dread inside my hearts. I see the hope in their breasts, the beginnings of obsession, and I do not know how to stop them from falling. I, Ferrus Manus, who has brought entire civilisations into my father's fold, cannot see where I must start to unravel this dangerous affliction. This obsession with perfection.

There is another amongst my brothers who harbours in him such a desire, but where my sons strive for a perfection that is false, Fulgrim strives for the perfection of our father, and that is something good and true. Fulgrim has his own way of comporting himself, and many threads of reasoning which are too complex even for me to untangle. But I trust my brother; I trust his wisdom and his insight, and for all that he surrounds himself with the colourful trappings of the lifetime of indulgence which he was once denied, his soul has more steel in it than half my father's sons combined.

I feel shame for this, for it is a weakness in myself, but I need my brother. I need his quick wit, his canny understanding of people, his perceptions which are so much more subtle than my own. I have ever seen in black and white, but my brother sees in shades I suspect I do not even know exist. If there is anyone that can help me heal my sickened Legion, then I believe that it is him.

How then, can I do this thing? It is beyond my ability to ask outright for his aid in this. I cannot bring myself to speak the words, to admit to him that I have failed my sons. That I have misused the weapons, the resources, which our father has given me to do his work. I am ashamed. I must rely upon my brother's insight to know that which I need from him. But my brother has his own foibles, and I would be a fool to ignore them.

Fulgrim needs to be rewarded for his time, given gifts and praise to confirm to him that he has the perfection of our father, and the respect of his brothers. I do respect Fulgrim, and I love him deeply, but he is my brother, and as such I cannot resist the competition and sport which has been the bond and bane of brothers throughout eternity. He does not always trust my intent is not to poke fun at him, and that, I admit, is entirely my own fault.

And so I am here, in my forge without a flame, in the darkest heart of my father's palace. I bend my body over my workbench and strive with these alien hands of mine to create something worthy of my brother's attention. If I am to court Fulgrim, to both capture his attention and communicate to him the depth and complexity of my problem, then I must create for him something that is nothing less than perfection itself.

I have in my hands a silver gauntlet, shaped to fit my brother's hand. It captures in its metal skin the brilliance of the moonlight across a silent desert, that perfect peace which is the poise with which my brother comports himself. The light which it captures in its contours, the mirror effect of its smooth surface, picking up the reflection of all those around him, is to remind him of the complexities of the world which only he sees. The lightness of its whole, the strength and unbreakable power of its form despite how thinly the metal is layered, is my comment upon his own strength. It is my praise of him, and my confession, and my shameful, humble request for his help.

When my father's great crusade has come to its end, when the time has come to set aside all weapons and turn our thoughts to that which comes after war, then shall I turn to my brother and seek his aid. Then shall I attempt to win his favour all over again, to beg from him without words the help that I and my sons need. When all this is over, I shall go to my brother and I shall present him with this gift, and in doing so I hope that he will see me for what I truly am, and be moved to save me from what I have become. In this, as in all things, do I trust him completely.


End file.
